


Fake It Till You Make It

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: Mick looks at Haircut and sees the sliver of silver on his hand, and he thinks,mine.Stupid. It's just a part of their get-up to sell the cover, like the dumbass suit and the fancy shirt Gideon put him into that keep chafing at his scars, like the badge with the fake name he always forgets. It doesn't mean shit.
Relationships: Ray Palmer/Mick Rory
Comments: 10
Kudos: 67
Collections: fandomtrees





	Fake It Till You Make It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryontop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryontop/gifts).



> This is just a tiny little piece of tropey fluff, but I really wanted to write something for you because your art always brings me so much joy (and always makes me regret not requesting art in exchanges more often). ♥

"I'm sorry. I'm really bad at this," Haircut says. He's all flustered and red-cheeked, wide-eyed like a cute lil' doe staring down the headlights. It would be a real nice look on him, if it weren't a sign of how badly they're screwing up the mission and how much of an ass-kicking they'll be in for later, when the Captain has to come and bail them out.

"No shit." Mick rolls his eyes. 

He still remembers back when they first boarded this time-traveling tin-can and Haircut had boasted about his great undercover skills, only to be handed his ass first by the mark and later by Snart. Snart... yeah, Snart used to be good at his shit. Duping people. Pretending to be someone he wasn't. Made a whole damn career out of it. If he were here now, he'd give them a piece of his mind about how much they're fucking it up and then he'd take over.

But he ain't here, and Mick has no patience for fantasizing about what ifs. It's just him and Haircut, so they gotta sell this all good and proper. Should be easy enough, right? Just like the real thing, except it's not.

"You gotta stop thinking about it, Haircut."

"What?" He sounds confused, like he doesn't understand the concept. 

Stupid big-brained idiot, of course he fucking doesn't know how to not over-think every tiny little thing, like it's some complicated equation with lots of letters and weird symbols that he's gotta solve. 

Mick huffs. "Just act normal. Pretend I'm some chick you're into. Or a guy, whatever. No judgement."

"Yeah, sure." Haircut's smile is a little shaky, those white movie-star teeth of his gnawing on his lower lip. Mick wouldn't mind doing that for him. Bite that sweet, chatty mouth until it's nice and red, then soothe it with his tongue. Shame that it would make Haircut run for the hills. 

He keeps fiddling with the wedding band on his finger. Just a nervous habit. Probably doesn't even know he's doing it. But it draws Mick's eyes towards the ring every damn time, and then something primal and possessive churns in his gut, same way he feels when he looks at a fire he started. He's never put a ring on anyone's hand before – not like that, anyway; the one Snart got from their first job doesn't count. Never really wanted to. Didn't stick around long enough for it to become a thing, even when he had someone, back in the day. 

Now he looks at Haircut and sees the sliver of silver on his hand, and he thinks, _mine_. 

Stupid. It's just a part of their get-up to sell the cover, like the dumbass suit and the fancy shirt Gideon put him into that keep chafing at his scars; like the badge with the fake name he always forgets. It doesn't mean shit. 

As if to prove the point, Haircut's face breaks into the biggest, fakest smile Mick's ever seen as he loops his arm around Mick's and says loudly, "Alright, sweetheart, let's go have a nice dinner, and then we'll go back up to our room and you can ravish me."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mick sees a passing woman stumble and stare at them. He half-turns towards at her and scowls until she hurries off.

When she's gone, Mick jerks his elbow forward and shakes off the grip, forceful enough that Haircut takes a wary step back, his toothy smile crumbling into a sad kicked-puppy expression. 

"Married folks don't act like that, Haircut." More like, no-one fucking acts like that, not even in romance novels. Mick knows, because he's written a whole bunch of them, and every single one was a bestseller. If Buck talked to Garima like that, she'd kick him in the balls. "This ain't how you were with Birdgirl when you two were all lovey-dovey. You were engaged, right? 's almost like being married. Just do what you did then."

This undercover stuff was a bad idea. He'd known it from the start. Said so, too, but of course no one had listened to him. They never do. 

Mick's got half a mind to scrap the damn plan now, get the Heat Gun and torch this whole place instead. Shoot first, don't ask questions later. Easy. Captain said not to, but Captain's probably gonna be pissed either way.

Haircut looks away. "I wasn't really _doing_ anything then. I was just, you know, being myself."

"Great. Be yourself, then." Fucking hell, now Mick sounds like the shrink they made him see in school, back before they realized that if he was _being himself_ , things were gonna burn. Poor sod probably regretted that advice soon enough. Haircut won't be making anything but their covers go up in flames, but that doesn't mean Mick ain't gonna be eating his words later. "No fluttering eyelashes and stupid pet names, you hear me? No one cares if you can't fake wanting in my pants."

Something he said must be getting through to Haircut's big genius brain, because he's turning towards Mick, that little frown in the middle of his forehead he always gets when he's solving a problem. Makes him look constipated, mostly, but that face has often enough been followed up by ideas that saved their collective asses, so Mick knows better than to roll his eyes at it.

Doesn't mean he won't get impatient when Haircut doesn't get a move on and just carries on staring at him. 

"What's it now?" he asks grumpily.

Haircut's forehead smoothes out and he steps forward. Before Mick can stop him, his hand is on Mick's face. Not like a slap or a punch. All gentle, curving along Mick's jaw. He's got large hands, easily covering Mick's cheek from his chin to his ear, and the metal of the wedding band is warm and smooth. It brushes against Mick's skin, which feels weirdly naked anyway, carefully clean-shaven because apparently married scientists attending some frilly reception don't wear scruff. 

Mick gets distracted by the sensations for a moment, missing the way Haircut leans in until it's too late and Haircut plants one on him. Mick tenses, his spine stiff as if it's gonna snap into two any second now, heartbeat drumming in his chest and his hand clenching emptily at his side where the Heat Gun would be if he weren't wearing the damn suit.

Haircut's lips are soft like a girl’s, but he kisses like he's trying to make a point. Not rough or forceful. Just insistent. Like he means it.

The thought is like a spark, igniting Mick's anger bright and hot. Hands clamping around Haircut's shoulders, he pushes him away and glowers. 

"What the hell, Haircut?! I just told you to stop this shit." He tries to keep his voice low, but it's probably as successful as the whole damn mission. Whatever. People will just think they're having a lover's spat. Probably sells the whole marriage angle better than anything else they've been doing.

Unlike before, Haircut holds his ground. He juts his chin and doesn't scramble back. His lips look even redder than before, and his cheeks are flushed, and if that's giving Mick a couple of ideas for his new book, it's not like anyone will ever know. 

"No, you didn't," Haircut argues, because he's never known when to shut up. "You told me not to fake it. So I, um, well, I didn't." 

He smiles again. Not that fake smile from before, but not his usual bright happy smile either. A little awkward. Nervous. Hopeful. 

Huh.

Mick stares at him. Tries to figure out what exactly Haircut's saying. He knows what it sounds like to him, but he isn't always good at reading people, figuring out what's going on in their heads. And underneath that stupidly pretty, floppy hair, there's a whole lot going on that Mick knows he's got no chance at following.

He watches the smile dim like dying embers under his glare, watches Haircut open his mouth and say something that starts with "I'm sorry"— and maybe it's less complicated than Mick's making it. Maybe Haircut means exactly what he says. 

_Fuck it_ , Mick thinks. He smashes their mouths together, cutting off whatever apology Haircut was gonna make. Mick interrupted him mid-sentence, so his lips are open anyway, and Mick uses the opportunity to push his tongue between them, deep and wet and dirty.

It's a nice kiss. Mick's always liked kissing, liked tasting someone, licking into every corner of their mouth, tongues sliding together. The way it sets you aflame from the inside, makes you want more. And then Haircut unfreezes and starts kissing back, groaning into Mick's mouth, and it gets even better. 

Haircut's hands clench in his suit. Some passer-by wolf-whistles at them. Someone shouts at them to get a room. Mick can't be bothered to take a hand off Haircut to show them the finger. 

Maybe they got the whole undercover thing down, after all.

End


End file.
